It was the day of the grand celebration and the amount of food was stunning. There were places to sit out in front of the castle. The door stood open. Tables and blankets were placed everywhere. There were musicians and dancers.
The great stone courtyard had a massive bonfire roaring at its centre. And food…there was such a feast laid out, for all. Not simply the chieftains and other gentry, but for the whole of the clan. Fish, game and fowl. Breads and cakes.
Everyone was dressed in their finest—whatever that might mean. From faded gowns that looked to have passed through several generations, to sweeping great kilts in different tartans.
It was quite unlike anything to ever grace the clan before. At least, not in Lachlan’s memory.
And Penny was at the centre of the preparation. Her hair was a tangle, her eyes bright. She was wearing a dress that, if he was not mistaken, must’ve come from one of the maids.
She was working. And she looked…happy. Happier than he had ever seen her, certainly.
They had a few hours yet until the festivities began and she seemed bound and determined to have a hand in every last bit.
For his part, he had done nothing.
But this was her business. Her idea. He was still not convinced that it would have a bearing on anything. She was the one who seemed absolutely certain that it was necessary to the happiness of the clan.
The smell of meat roasting on spits was thick in the air, along with music, laughter and bawdy songs.
Inside the great hall, the setting was yet more grand. People filled the room, both from Clan MacKenzie and from other clans who had come from near and far. A mix of people and times. For this felt more like the stories of old, from when the clans had endless power and resources, and had not been touched by England.
The music was from an era gone by. The food—by virtue of the sheer, vast quantity—was as well.
This was the Highlands. The clan. Scotland. In a deep, essential way that stirred his blood.
One thing he had not considered was what a great demonstration of strength and power this was.
Because excess like this did nothing to dent his wealth, yet it was far beyond anything his people would have seen in more than a generation.
‘You’ve done well,’ he said.
She paused, looking startled. ‘Well. Thank you. A surprise coming from you, considering that you’ve had little to do with the process.’
‘You didn’t need me.’
Something flashed in her blue eyes and, somehow, he felt an echo of it in his chest. He couldn’t name it or hold on to it. But he felt it all the same.
‘Well. It doesn’t matter. Everything is in hand.’
‘The clans will see how powerful Clan MacKenzie is. We are not on the brink of destruction. Not any more.’
‘I did not have cakes made as an act of war. Please don’t turn it into one.’
‘Who said anything about war? But it is clear that we are the strongest.’
‘That right there. Not everything has to be about strength.’
‘It does. The reality of the world is that the winner will always be the strongest.’
‘That’s bleak. Why does there have to be a winner? Why can’t people simply live and be happy?’
‘Because there will always be a conqueror. Always. And if you are not a conqueror, you will be the conquered.’
‘Truths learned in war?’
‘Truth is learned here. In my whole life. Had I stayed here, this clan would have been conquered by my father’s greed. I went to England to try to make my fortune. Your father bested me. I had to obtain power. I had to obtain strength. Had I not done so, these people would have fallen into ruin.’
‘I can see that,’ she said softly. ‘But you’re not at war any more.’
‘There is always a war on the horizon. Even if it is not war as you think of it. You must always be prepared. You cannot show weakness.’
‘What about kindness?’
He looked around. ‘You have done that for the both of us.’
‘They might like to see it from you.’ Her words were soft, the touch of her fingertips on his arm softer still. But he felt it, like the blow from a weapon, so hard it radiated through him, settling low in his stomach.
‘Do you intend to dance tonight? To show them that you have a bit of humour?’
‘Why would I do that? I haven’t got humour.’
‘You don’t think so? I thought sometimes it felt as though we found some together,’ she said, looking sad. Why was she sad? She had got what she wanted. And as for the way things were between the two of them, it had been her decision.
If there was distance, it was not down to his choice.
The back of his teeth ached. She was lovely, even now, even in this scullery maid’s costume. It was confounding. As was she.
‘There has been no room for it in my life.’
‘Well, show them that you’re human tonight.’
‘Why? I would show them that I am a king.’
‘You don’t have to struggle to show that, Lachlan. But you might have to work a bit to show them that you have a heart.’
‘The people don’t need to know their leader has a heart. They need to know I have a sword.’
And with that, he left her. But something about the conversation lingered with him. Made him feel disquiet.
He did prepare himself, putting on a great kilt, his sword at his hip. He was ready to make a display, both for his people and for the guests.
* * *
When it was time, he went between the connecting doors to his and Penny’s room, again without knocking.
‘It’s time,’ he said.
‘You might knock,’ she said.
‘I don’t have to do any such thing, lass,’ he said. ‘It is my castle. My domain.’
‘How nice for you.’
She had transformed from when he had last seen her in the courtyard, overseeing the preparations.
And she was beautiful. Even angry at him. Her blonde hair was pinned low on her neck, her gown a delicate gold, the neckline low and wide revealing the creamy curves of breasts he had nearly forgotten the touch and taste of. She was a vixen, this woman.
She haunted his dreams and he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t so.
She had bewitched him in some manner. He had had no answer for her when she had asked him about the jewellery box and he was convinced it was somehow related to his exile. But the only answer that he’d been able to find, there beneath the discomfort of his skin, had been that he had cared. Had cared about whether or not she was happy. And that did not seem real or possible in any regard. He was a man driven by revenge. A man driven by duty, honour and a sense of what was right. A man determined to be the very opposite of his father, Who had been hot-blooded and driven by such weaker devices as his feelings.
She looked up at him, an air of defiance in her blue eyes.
He took hold of her arm and it lit him up like the fire in the great hearth. ‘It’s time for us to meet our guests.’
‘Of course,’ she said. But her smile was cold. ‘You must behave, Lachlan.’
‘I am Laird here. I determine the behaviour.’
‘Then don’t turn this into a funeral. It is meant to be a happy occasion.’
‘I will do my best not to frighten small children.’
‘Please do.’ She paused for a moment. ‘That man…the one who challenged you. I invited his family to the celebration. He’s consumed with drink and his wife and children live in fear of him. They don’t have enough food…’
‘There will be enough food,’ he said, his voice grim. ‘For everyone. As for the rest, it is a tragedy to be sure. And were I to ever witness a man harming his wife or children the consequence would be severe.’
‘That isn’t enough. We have to do something.’
‘We are. This changes things. You have to have some trust in that. You cannot heal all the ills of the world, lass.’
‘Isn’t that what you’re trying to do? Heal the ills of the world by pouring your money back into this clan? How is what I want any different?’
‘There is a system here. A structure. The people here work the land and they should benefit from it. My father stole. Profited off the backs of his labourers in an unjust manner. That I can restore. That I can heal. The rest… That is up to them.’
That seemed to infuriate her, but she said no more because they were descending the stairs, and making their way towards the great hall. That was where they were announced by one of the chieftains. He as the Laird—and she as his lady.
The crowd of people let up a cheer as they made their way into the great hall. This was a hero’s welcome.
This was the welcome Penny’s actions had brought to him.
He had not truly understood what she was doing, planning this. But now that he stood here, surveying the people, the food, he understood. It was not only a demonstration for the people, but for him. Of what it meant to be here. Of what it truly was to be home.
And Penny was by his side.
She might not wish to take him into her bed, but she was here. And she was his.
The possessiveness he felt was strange. For while he understood the desire to possess, and to protect…
What he did not understand was his desire to see her smile. The pride he felt over this thing she had planned.
He took a seat at the head of the table, with her at his left. And as he sat, he spoke to the men there about the way the Highlands had been these last years. The way that things had changed. And the ways in which Lachlan was determined to see them restored.
All the while, Penelope sat, bearing the countenance of a real wife. A proper wife.
A lie.
* * *
When dinner was finished, the music began to play. And his men, deep in their cups by then, all began to shout for the Laird and lady to give them a dance.
Lachlan, for his part, hadn’t danced without the aid of alcohol and outside a pub for more years than he could count. And before that, he did not think he ever danced.
This was necessary. The show of strength and unity. And if it was what the people wanted, he could not deny them. If part of him relished the idea that Penny would have to be close to his body again, that was inconsequential.
He was simply human.
Simply a man. A man who wanted to dance with his wife.
He pulled her to him, the dance much more at home in a tavern than here, but he didn’t much care. The fiddle was moving fast and the other dancers were already drunk. Penny clearly didn’t know how to dance a reel, but she followed as best she could.
When it was his turn to grab hold of his bride, he took her in his arms and didn’t return her to the line, spinning her around with her crushed against his chest.
She laughed, her smile wide with her joy…
She was happy. Here with him.
In this moment she was happy.
It tangled itself around his heart, around his soul. He hadn’t thought either of those things still existed inside him.
It was clear the display pleased his men, for they clapped along with the music, sending great shouts up into the air. And something shifted inside him. For this was what it meant to be home. This was what it meant to be in Scotland. To be in his clan. This hall. This castle. This music.
He was not an outsider here.
He was not an outsider for the first time in years. His accent was no different, his words not unique. The manners and dancing and food were familiar.
Penny smiled, her blonde hair twirling right along with her.
And he felt something…something he had not felt in years.
Happiness.
It was an ache that bloomed in his chest and spread outward. And for a moment, he could not breathe past it.
She had been right. There was happiness here.
He thought it might be contained in her smile.
When the dance finished, his heart was thundering hard, his blood firing through his veins. And perhaps his head was a bit dizzy from drink, though he hadn’t had overmuch, but he dragged her away from the dance floor, away from the party and into an alcove. He backed her against the wall then and finally did what he had wanted to do for days.
He crushed her mouth beneath his, claiming every stolen kiss that she’d taken from him. Every missed touch.
She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers spearing into his hair, kittenish sounds rising in her throat. Sounds of encouragement.
She had inflamed in him a desire that he did not understand. This creature who he had bedded in the most perfunctory of ways, but who had ignited in him a need that far surpassed any he had ever felt before.
He was not gentle. He did not give quarter to her innocence. He consumed her, his kisses deep and long and hard. He plundered her mouth with his tongue, taking all that she would give and then demanding yet more.
He was hard as steel and, if she were a whore, he would have demanded she take herself down to her knees and pleasure him with her mouth. The very image of his darling angel taking his cock between her lips created a fire in his veins.
They were so close to the party that anyone could see them. But it didn’t matter, for he was chief. He was The MacKenzie. And this was his home. This was Scotland. It wasn’t England. She belonged to him here. Him and no other. And whatever he desired, it might be his. Whatever he wanted.
He was not in shackles any more. He was not enslaved.
He had spent so many years labouring to find himself a free man. Fighting for a country he didn’t owe allegiance to. Earning what should have been his twice over.
He had earned it with bravery on the battlefield, had seen countless atrocities and more bloodshed then those who had not been to war could ever believe. He had toiled and clawed his way back to Scotland. And he had claimed her on his way. Payment for all those years of working for her father.
His payment.
Justification for his kisses, for risking her exposure, fuelled him.
He pulled the top of her dress down, exposing the rosy crests of her breasts. She was lovely. Far beyond anything he could’ve possibly dreamed.
So changed from the little creature who had brought him the bird.
How would he have ever known that he would have found such satisfaction in her arms? There was no thought now. Only a roaring in his veins. In his head.
Mine.
For he was a conqueror, his bloodline that of warriors.
And what his body understood was staking a claim.
Not wedding vows spoken in a church and recognised by soft English society, but an earthy, physical alliance. One that she had denied him these many days.
He would be denied no longer.
He kissed her. Kissed her until her lips were the colour of crushed rose petals, until she trembled beneath his touch.
‘To your knees, lass,’ he said, his voice rough.
She looked up at him, with wide, wild blue eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’
Suddenly, the world came back into focus.
Suddenly, realisation overtook him. He was no better than his father acting out of the fire in his blood. Acting like a man possessed. Like a man owed the bodies of everyone and everything around him.
Yes, it might be the law that a man owned his wife, but he had seen what happened when a man took that to heart. The ways in which it could destroy a woman. A good woman. Of course she didn’t understand. She was an innocent. Corrupted only by the few times he had taken her, quickly and without much finesse, in narrow, hard beds in coaching inns. And he was demanding she get on her knees like a seasoned piece in a near public alcove where anyone could walk in. This lady of a wife.
Wasn’t that the point of her? To disgrace her?
No.
He had only ever wanted to disgrace her father. But tonight he had come close to disgracing her and that meant he’d dishonoured himself.
It could not be borne. Because that made him his father. The truth of his blood borne out in front of him.
‘Go back to the celebrations,’ he said.
‘Lachlan…’ Her voice was breathy, stunned.
‘Go back, lass,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘If you know what’s good for you.’
She left, backing away from him, her eyes on his the whole time. An accusation, he felt.
Back here so little time and the corruption of his own blood was beginning to seep through his veins.
He waited a moment. Waited until the evidence of his own arousal was no longer pressing against the front of his kilt.
When he rejoined the party, Penny was there, looking stunned.
But she didn’t stay away from him. Rather, she crossed the space and joined him.
‘Lachlan… Why did you tell me to leave?’
‘You know perfectly well.’
‘I don’t.’
‘There are things a man does not use his wife for, Penny.’
‘What things?’
‘I’m not going to speak to you of this.’
‘Why not?’
‘Enough,’ he said, his voice hard.
‘Why?’ She pressed again. ‘Why do you care how you use me?’
She asked the question without malice. And he had the feeling that she was asking it in much the same way she had asked why he had given her the jewellery box.
‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ he said, keeping his tone deliberately uncompromising. ‘It is simply the way of it.’
If he had failed the first time for answering in such a manner, then he had deliberately failed this time.
All the better.
For here, with all the power in the world he could want, he did not feel any more able to protect the weak than he had out in the world.
For he could not protect Penny from himself.
And that was a failure deeper than he could face.